


Thus Be My Will

by bodysnatch3r



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Cannibalism, Gen, Mental Instability, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 19:00:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bodysnatch3r/pseuds/bodysnatch3r
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>William Graham had every quality to become a praised knight in shining armour under the protection of Jack Crawford, Baron of Balt's Moor: smart, brave and noble at heart. Until, that is, everyone around him realised something's not quite right with him: terrified of being possessed by a demon, William sought refuge in the books and parchments of the Quanticus Abbey, teaching scholars Latin and the Scriptures. But his "gift" (if one can call that) refuses to leave him alone: William can see things like no one else can, and somehow knows things he isn't possibly supposed to know, the answers to the horrible murders that have been plaguing the surrounding villages just a blink of an eye away. Determined to put an end to the terror washing over his land as the "monster" known by the locals as the Chesapeake Demon continues to shed blood, Crawford calls upon Graham to help him bring the murderer to justice, at one condition: that the renowned and respected Father Lecter keep a close eye on him, just in case the Devil himself doesn't try to speak through poor Will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thus Be My Will


    He that eats my flesh, and drinks my blood, dwells in me, and I in him.  
      
    John 6:56

And then you step within the dream, and God and Satan both whisper to you through Golden Pendulums.

William Graham is not a happy man. He knows this, the same way he knows the back of his hands and the way parchment curls and how dust tastes after candlelight has nearly burned your eyesight. He knows he is not a happy man, and he knows he is trapped.

He knows this as he stares at the woman on the floor in front of him and as he stares at the letters written in ink and he sighs and runs a hand through sweaty hair and  _God forgive me please_  he shuts his eyes, and her blood trickles from her mouth into his mind into his nose as her husband is placed on their wooden table by able hands, the thud of dead flesh.

A man that looks through a Demon's eyes- a man that looks through a God's eyes- which one is he? He wishes he could know. All he knows is that he  _knows_. And it terrifies him. But for now William Graham shuts his eyes as his boots click against a rotten wooden floor and his writing flows under his fingertips, as his mind runs wild. He shuts his eyes and  _loses himself_.

_Murdered when you were a child_. In the village he'd grown up in they'd killed a wife and a husband, Marlowe, and William had creeped into their home when they were taking care of the bodies and no one had ever ever ever found out who'd it been. Except for William, of course- and that was when he had understood how deep the demon dwelled, because tiny little William had glanced around and closed his eyes and thought (he'd been sixteen, by then, just ready to go under Jack Crawford's care, become one of his knights, and oh his father was  _proud of that_ ) and lost himself the same way he is losing himself now remembering all that.

A wife and a husband.

He had been stabbed first.

Of course he'd been stabbed first, but not deep enough to kill: he had had to  _watch_. He had had to see her ripped from him, taken,  _destroyed_. Whoever it had been had made it so he had seen the wreckage first hand, and then whoever had killed them had made it so he bled out on the floor a few feet from her, painful enough and long enough for her to think of every little breath he'd taken.

Painful and long and bloody enough for his mind to go blank, a paralyzed ocean of pain creeping into Marlowe's arms, a sea of pure terror.

And then he'd stabbed her too, cutting so she could no longer walk, or talk, or move. But she could feel,  _and that was what mattered_.

And then he'd shown her the gates of Hell. And then he'd shown them both the wrath of Heaven.

Sixteen year old William Graham had seen all this behind his eyes without understanding  _how_ , and he'd vomited into a manger, pale and sick and trembling, because he was so scared of himself, so deeply terrified.

He'd felt the Demon whisper.

> _I kick down the door. Univited._

And, ten years later, William Graham stares at the candle flame burning as he writes all this down. A flame that licks and burns the same way the light dances behind his nightmares whenever he forces himself to  _look_. Some call this a gift and yet he knows this is a curse. This,  _this_  terrifies him to no end.

> _I stab Marlowe first, I leave him to bleed on the floor. I turn to his wife. She is mine to take, I want him to watch as I rip her from him. I stab her once, a second time. She is paralyzed. She is nothing._
> 
> _But she can still feel._

The sheer horror of what he'd been able to  _imagine_. How. How could a child know such things? How if not with the aid of a Demon, a Beast, Satan himself?

_I knew, Lord help me I knew and I do not know how_.

William Graham had started to lose his mind that day, and Jack (the once bastard, now recognized and rightful owner of the land son of Lord Crawford, brought back from one of his many crusades) had soon understood how unfit he was to wield a sword. His father had understood that, too. 

> _Thus be my will_.

"You have a gift," some had foolishly dared to say, those who could not understand the sheer horror of it, men and women who maybe saw it as a miracle.

"I have a curse," he had snarled back, and decided to put his battered brains to better use: teaching Latin and the Scriptures, hiding away not too far from Crawford's castle, in the abbey of Quanticus. Here he'd found solace, and quiet, the same quiet that spills now through his window in the nighttime cold. Winter is dwindling close.

It's dark, William realizes all of a sudden, and stares at his hands and at the candle that's nearly burned to a stub. And then the door of his small room creaks open, and he sits up, startled. The ink spills and pools on the parchment: the words he's just finished writing are drowned away. He notices but says nothing: these are not teachings nor are they words of importance, William tells himself. They are an account of madness, of possession, of illness. A desperate way to exorcise a demon he will never be rid of.

The one responsible of opening the door is a small nun, a timid tremble of a voice escaping her lips: "Sir Graham? Lord Crawford is here to see you."

And William wonders what the man wants from him, at such an hour of the night.

* * *

"Will, sit down."

Crawford is not a small man, wrapped in his suits and his furs and sitting on a wooden chair that smells of oils and of balms, the crackle of a fireplace so different from the cold outside, and William slips out of the cover he wrapped over his shoulders and warms his hands next to the embers.

Jack offers him a glass of wine and he quickly shakes his head: the taste of remembering his vision still sours his teeth.

"I haven't seen you in a while, Graham, how have you been?"

"Possessed," William's tempted to answer, but doesn't. The room they're in is the prioress', the wine Jack is having was offered by her. Mother Alana is an intelligent woman with icy blue eyes who cares for William, for some reason (not that he minds the room she's offered him, quite the contrary).

"The life I live here is good, my lord. I have all I need."

"And how is your... illness?"

The question hangs between them for a few harrowing moments, before William spats out, "The Demon is well." 

Even saying it pains him. Even saying it scares him.

Crawford stares at his glass before nodding to himself, and smirking, "Have you heard of the disappeared girls?"

"The Seven Maidens?"

They're already the stuff of legend, they've already been talked about in hushed whispers and worried gazes, glances exchanged, girls locked behind doors to avoid them being taken away God knows where.

"Yes."

William scoffs and shakes his head. He already knows what's about to be asked and the thought repels him. So he says it first and gives himself the illusion of having the upper hand.

"You want me... you want me to.  _Use_. It. The Demon."

"Yes."

William shakes his head harder, "I've hidden here for a reason."

"William, I need you. They've taken an eighth girl. I need your help."

"Since when does a baron care about vanished girls?" William asks with a bitter smirk.

"Since there's been one too many. You can help me find who did this, William. Help me bring him to justice."

_Hoping to get your soul into Heaven, Crawford_?

William knows he's right. William knows that the whispers that blossom on his tongue are  _truth_ , and they are a key that stands between a murderer and justice, but William also knows because he's dreamt it, that they are nothing but Temptation. And desperation. And terror.

But seeing within a sinner's mind can help. He knows this. It can help.

So he nods, hating himself.

"Very well, my lord. I'll do as you ask."

* * *

The latest's name is Elise von Nichols, daughter of merchants. 

William stands in their home and stares at their fine ceramics and at their good wooden chairs and then a cat meows and rubs itself against his legs. He blinks at it, somehow startled, and then glances behind himself. Crawford is sitting at a table, holding the girl's mother's hands whilst her father clutches- no,  _clings_ , to his wife's shoulders as he stands behind her, a single hand placed against her.

"You are kind to come here, our lord," he mutters, ghastly pale.

"House Crawford is close to you in this time of trouble."

William swallows when he hears Jack's words and the cat keeps on nosing against his ankles. He shakes it off and it disappears, trots somewhere else.

"We had left the home for a day, a business trip to the nearby town. Elise was supposed to stay here and tend to the house," the mother suddenly blurts out to no one in particular, staring at the table in front of her. Wording it eases the guilt William suspects is with no doubt crushing her right now.

"But when you came home she was gone," Jack says. The woman nods.

"Any idea of who might have taken her? Any enemies? Business rivals?" 

The man shrugs: words are lodged in his throat but his baby girl is gone and that is all that matters, right now, and fear is all that blocks him.

"Can I see her room?" William suddenly asks. Three pairs of eyes stare at him, puzzled for a moment, he shifts uncomfortably as their gazes stick to his skin. William clears his throat, "I might help you find her."

Von Nichols glares at Crawford, who nods.

"How?" the mother asks.

"I can. See things."

"Are you the Graham boy? The one through whom God sees?"

William can't help but nod, bitter. She sounds so  _hopeful_. As if he holds the answer.

"Although I doubt God would want to bestow such a horror upon someone, m'lady."

"If not God then who else?"

The question is horrible and uncomfortable and no one wants to answer it nor take the time to indulge and think about it, so the girl's father nods and leads William and Crawford up creaking wooden stairs, to find the same cat from earlier mewing at a locked door.

William opens it and knows almost exactly what he's going to see inside.

She's lying there, perfect and beautiful, angelic, nearly, chest pierced, still in her bed, a cacophony of death and nothingness. And her father staggers forward and his eyes are wide and he mutters one word, " _Elise_ " and then William flips around and hisses, "Please leave, sir," and _it is Such Horror oh Lord please forgive me_  as Crawford peeks in and their eyes meet. And the girl has been lied down in a bed of metaphors and broken youth,  _Such Horror oh Lord please forgive me_ , and then William is alone in the room and his stomach is a bottomless pitiless well of dread and pain, Elise nothing but a cadaver, and he shuts his eyes,  _Such Horror oh Lord please forgive me_  as if he were the one that took her, that put her there, that broke her life,  _oh Lord_ , he shuts his eyes, he shuts his eyes, he lets himself go. William loses himself.

And then before he knows it he is melting away, he is someone else, he is the Demon in his mind that tells him who he is and what he does and how, and all of a sudden he  _knows_ , and the wounds that pierce Elise's chest are gone and she is alive, for a moment William dreams she is breathing.

And then he's _choking her_ , her hands scrambling, caught between one breath and the next as her heart slams against her ribcage and her eyes become wide, Elise's mouth open is such a soundless wordless helpless scream as William's hands constrict in nightmare around her neck and  _crush_  and she is beautiful as she thrashes and he is freeing her and he is begging himself not to do this and then he can feel her heartbeat soften, the pitter-patter of a doe's footsteps along freshly fallen snow as death welcomes her so wonderfully and right before she  _snaps_ - _  
_

"You're Will Graham, aren't you?"

Few people and only people that know him are allowed to call him  _Will_. His father, for example. And Mother Alana. And Jack Crawford, of course, since he is like a father to him. But this isn't Jack Crawford's voice and it certainly can't be his father's. So William is dragged back inside himself and he can almost hear his mind cackle back, and he's once again standing beside the dead girl's bed. There's a woman next to him, black hair held back with a shining hair clip, blue dress elegant but in no way flashy, dark eyes gleaming curiously. Elisabeta, known only God knows why as Beverly, is a protégé of Crawford's, a smart rich girl who would've become the best knight around had she been born a boy (and she can wield a weapon as well as a man, if not better). William stares at her, bewildered. "You're not supposed to be here," he mutters, because the Demon feeds on quietness and silence and on the absence of others: it needs to prey on Will's life and Will's alone, he thinks. And Jack does too, deep down, although Jack still denies that what is plaguing Graham is nothing but aggressive divine intervention.

"There's something in the wounds."

Will blinks again.

She points at the holes in the dead girl's chest. "There, look."

Before William can say anything, Beverly's leaning over and gingerly picking at whatever's stuck between flesh and blood and holding it up to the light, "It's antler velvet," someone else says. Will turns around and sees both Brian of Zeller and James Price, knights, stand in the doorway. He furrows his brow, Crawford joins their party. 

"What are you doing here?" he snarls at them. "I told you to stay out until he was ready."

"Beverly found antler velvet in the girl's wounds," Zeller explains.

" _Antler velvet_?"

"Deer use their antlers to pin their pray and suffocate them." the knight goes on.

"So a  _stag_  killed her?"

But William is quick to shake his head, "He  _choked her_. He put her back where he found her. He. He feels sorry for killing her. He's trying to apologize."

Four people stare at him as if he were out of his mind, raving, slobbering, chanting to Satan himself. And he knows that for a moment it's what all of them thought, because how can he  _possibly know this_  unless he was the one who murdered her, or unless he was blessed? 

Or unless he was a witch, possessed, mating with the Beast?

"All the other girls are dead," William then mutters, "but he's going to kill again. He's searching for something."

Jack can tell himself all of the lies he wants. They all know it's a Demon.

* * *

His back aches. His mind aches, throbbing behind his skull in such a way that makes it difficult to think. The chill air offers little to no relief, and he knows he'll need ice pressed to his temples when he gets back to the abbey. Right now he's treading down the dirt road that leads to it, forest looming on each side, when he sees something trot towards him a few feet ahead in the semi darkness.

It's a dog. A ruffled, tired, lost dog.

"Hello."

Will smiles at it and crouches down when it stops in its tracks to stare at him. He calls it over and it doesn't move, head tilted to the side in curiosity and little else. William searches through his bag for a remnant of dinner, dark bread and some cheese waved a few feet from a dog's sharp nose.

The mutt comically tilts its head some more but doesn't move, William whistles to call it over, it seems tentative. He throws a piece of cheese at it and smiles at nothing, really, because it's too dark to see and he feels much too empty.

But then the dog trots over, curious, and eats the food, comes even closer, takes the food from his fingers. Licks them. Asks for more. The pit in Graham's stomach feels a little less empty and the bile burns his throat a little less.

"Hello," William says again, running a shaky hand through the dog's tattered fur. The dog whines a little and then nuzzles him. 

Will wonders if Mother Alana will let him keep it. 

(That night, his dreams are frightful and choking and smell of blood and of bile, he wakes up sweating, he wakes up crying, he wakes up having dreamt of the dead girl over and over. He reaches for her. She slips away.  _Thus be my will_.)

* * *

"More barley tea, Lord Crawford?"

Alana smiles from over her mug, steam flowing up and swirling around them. Jack shakes his head, "No thank you, ma'am." She sets her cup down and leans back, tucking a strand of jet-black hair back into her immaculate wimple.

"You're here to talk about the Graham boy."

She's young, closer to thirty than forty, and pretty, swirling eyes betraying sharp intelligence and wit.

"Of course."

"I heard you asked him to use his... gift."

"Concerning the disappeared girls."

"I don't deem it wise to do so, Crawford. His is a dangerous condition."

Jack furrows his brow, "You doubt its origins?"

"I doubt William's ability to keep himself afloat with such a... thing living inside of him. And yes, I doubt it is entirely Holy."

The clink of her spoon against the table Jack sat at merely two days before talking to William, she sighs as Crawford says, "Then why not have him exorcised?"

"Because what if it  _is_  Our Lord speaking through him and I do more harm than good?"

"William is convinced it is a Demon."

"William is scared. And lost. And exposing him to more horrors than he already forces himself to see will bring no good."

"Would you be willing to keep an eye on him? Guarantee for his safety?" ( _And the safety of those around him_  isn't obviously mentioned, but hangs between the two uncomfortably).

"You're not listening, are you?"

"I can't stand by whilst other girls are taken, God only knows how long this will last.  _What if Will's the only one able to stop this_?"

Alana laces her fingers together and leans her lips against her interlaced hands, "I'm sorry, I can't."

" _Why not_?"

"Because I am not in the position to do so. And because I do not want to compromise our friendship. I do not want to harm William Graham. The world has hurt the boy enough."

"Do you know anyone willing to keep an eye out for him?"

Alana sighs and rolls the eyes, knowing Crawford is unstoppable and terrifying and determined. And scared, too, which makes all of this infinitely more difficult.

"I know a priest, an exorcist. He's... he's a good man. A wonderful man, I might dare say."

"What's his name?"

"Hannibal Lecter." she says, and it almost pains her.

* * *

"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned."

But the Savior stands immoble behind the grill of the confession booth, a skull of shadow not moving, not speaking. Franklyn, a humble peasant, feels the words choke him.

He begins to cry almost immediately. Stoic, the Father doesn't say a word for a long, drawn-out minute during which the man on the other side sobs and sobs and sobs, crushed by the weight of his own petty sin- and Hannibal drinks the sound in with mild disgust, the other man's tears sticking to the roof of his mouth and trickling into his nausea-riddled stomach when Franklyn sniffles loudly not once, but twice, and then desperately tries to get words to function in a way that they can be understood.

_Worthless_.

"Speak to me, son."

And yet his voice tastes of nothing but kindness. He is kind. He  _is_  kind.

"Forgive- forgive me. Father for I have. I have sinned." he mutters again through ghastly desperate sobs. Hannibal raises his eyebrows, looks to the side (unseen) and waits for him to finish his crying, patiently, waits for Franklyn to start breathing properly again.

"I just don't know where to start, Father, everything I do is wrong, so wrong, so wrong."

"Well then, start from the beginning."

It's once the peasant is done with his dull talk of occasional masturbation and bland desperate theft that he smiles although he will not be seen and, in the warmest, most reassuring voice possible (and it  _is_  warm, a voice made of sharp cinnamon and burning embers) hisses: "Thirteen rosaries, my child, and pray God have mercy."

The small plump man that is Franklyn hiccups some more and pleads one last time, desperately: "I fear the Devil in every room, Father, always ready to pounce upon me and drag me with him to Hell."

"I assure you," and Hannibal is smiling again, "that when the Beast shall present itself to you, ready to grasp you, you will know. Go in peace, my son."

"Yes. Yes."

The other clambers out of the booth, a string of "Thank yous" and "Bless yous" falling from his bearded, greasy mouth as he crawls out of the church and back to his miserable life, and the Father swallows and steps outside, too, cracks his neck and glances around the nave. He is surprised to find a burly figure standing, two much more slender ones close by.

Crawford. Zeller. Price. 

The baron steps forward, Hannibal furrows his brow. His most cordial smirks snakes its way along his lips.

"And what brings our lord to my humble church?" he asks, rubbing his hands together, bowing ever so slightly. The wolf bears its fangs but lowers its snout.

"Discussions of a... spiritual matter."

"If you had wanted a confession, my lord, we could have arranged for a much more private meeting place."

Jack shakes his head. "Not for me, for a frie-"

"But I am being a rude host, Lord Crawford. Let me offer you something."

"There is no need."

"Please."

Jack turns to the other two and nods at them,  _stay outside_ , hands placed on their daggers,  _beware_. Him and the priest disappear into his study, an elegant and clean collection of books and parchments and sketches. Hannibal gestures at a chair, Crawford declines and prefers to nose around the various parchments and codeces, ink anatomical sketches, drawings of castles and villages. _  
_

"Are these yours?" he asks, as Lecter pours them both a glass of apple cider which neither of them will drink. The Father nods, "Yes, from my studies in Paris." 

A Bible sitting on the oak desk, a balcony circling over their heads, accessible through a polished wooden ladder. It is a comfortable study, elegant and sober at the same time,  _proof of knowledge and of humility_ , Jack thinks. 

"Mother Alana of Quanticus Abbey told me your name and said you could help me. Or better, a friend."

Father Lecter smiles at the name, "A remarkable woman, and a remarkable friend. Tell me, what problem of the soul needs my assistance?"

"We fear a boy we know might be possessed."

Hannibal sets down the cider he's been in the meantime still holding, "Possessed?"

"Or divinely touched."

"What symptoms does this boy show?"

"He can... see things unlike any other. He knows things he cannot possibly know. He can... tell how a person was killed without ever having met them, or their killer."

"Clairvoyant?"

Crawford flinches at the word.

"Yes. He calls it a Demon."

"Is this Will Graham? The one you brought into the Von Nichols' home?"

"How do you-"

"The mother came to confess yesterday evening."

Lord Crawford can't help but nod. Father Lecter sighs, seems to think for a moment, "What exactly do you want me to do?"

"Guarantee that he is not possessed. That he is healthy. Whole."

They're quiet for a second.

"Would you be willing to meet him, Father?"

And Hannibal (intrigued, devilish, amused), obviously, nods.

* * *

"They found brick dust on the girl."

"Brick dust?" 

Beverly, Zeller and Price all suddenly look up to see William Graham standing in the middle of the doorway, soaking wet. It's storming outside and he's clearly just ran in: Crawford wanted to see him.

Beverly nods at him, "Yes. They found it on her."

"Have they been building recently nearby?"

"What?"

"If there's  _brick dust on her_  that means that she was touched by someone who works or has at least contact with  _bricks_ , and since Lord Crawford wants to catch whoever did this, I advise you start searching from there."

"That still doesn't explain how antlers pierced her."

"So you're saying that a deer pierced her?"

Beverly scoffs at Zeller and rolls her eyes, "No, I'm not saying that a  _deer_  did that. I'm saying that the antlers were  _used_  to pierce her."

She puts down her book and glares at Price as if asking for his opinion, whilst Will stares at the stone floor, trying to warm himself, and feels the Demon start again with a quiet mix of panic and horror and bewilderment. But he's numb right now. And he gives in to the horror almost willingly.

> _She's floating in mid-air and she is shrouded in darkness and she is dead, as dead as can be. As dead as she was in his dream, a ghost, pale and wondrous._
> 
> _She is shrouded in darkness and death and suddenly, the antlers tear through her chest, blood running in rivers_.

William feels his mind spin. William feels his stomach shatter, knows that if he doesn't control himself he is going to make a fool of himself right in Jack Crawford's main hall and empty his innards right then and there.

"She was mounted on them." he manages to hiss. The three stare at him. "Like a trophy. She was probably bled, too."

"They say her liver was torn out and then stuffed back in. Rotten."

Will feels the darkness hit him in the stomach like a fist.

"He's  _eating them_."

"He's  _what_?"

"As I've just said. He's eating them."

" _What_  does something like that?" Ser Price asks, half horrified, bewildered.

"A  _Demon_." William whispers and smiles, bitter.

* * *

By the time he's managed to warm himself up, Jack Crawford's ready to see him. Sitting at the man's desk is also someone else: broad shoulders, muscular build, large hands. The face is sharp and sunken but not famished: cunning, even. Almost cruel.

He stands to shake William's hand and William reluctantly does so.

"William, this is Father Lecter."

William manages a grimace and a small nod, looking away as fast as he can, blue eyes fixating somewhere between the wall and Lecter's left shoulder. They sit. No one says a word.

"People have started to talk far too much." Father Lecter then suddenly says.

"About?"

"About the vanished girls, and the eighth one found dead in her own bed."

"Isn't that what people much too often do?" William mutters.

"Fredericka Lounds in particular." Jack Crawford says, not without bitterness. "Who steals from the bodies and sells hair and teeth as charms. Who tells stories over and over and over again to whoever is willing to listen. She's a healer, but she's more poison than cure."

" _Tasteless_." Will spats.

"Do you have a problem with taste?" the priest asks.

"My thoughts are often not...  _tasty_ , Father."

"And you have a problem looking your fellow man in the eye. Ashamed?"

Will swallows at Hannibal's question and flinches. "Eyes distract me. You learn too much and do not concentrate on what's important. For example, what a person is saying. You fall prey to the sparkle or the colour or the length of an eyelash. Worthless detail." 

He finishes with a flourish, by looking up and staring Lecter dead in the eye, unblinking.

"Eyes make you think too much about what's worthless."

"And what is worthless to you, Graham?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"Is faith worthless to you?"

Will furrows his brow and briefly glares at Jack, "I am not faithless."

"Yet you say a Demon lives within you."

" _I am not faithless_." William hisses at Lecter again. "And the Demon... the Demon is not me. It talks to me. It shows me things. But it is, not. Me. And you are not going to exorcise me."

"I did not mean-"

Will's head snaps towards Crawford, "You said all he was going to do was help find whoever killed Von Nichols."

"Will-"

"You said  _that_." William stands up, abruptly. " _You said that_."

"William." Father Lecter says sternly. But William doesn't want to listen: "Now, if you sirs may excuse me, I have the Scriptures waiting for me. Father.  _My Lord_."

And with that he's out, oak door slammed behind him. Lord Crawford sighs.

"I apologise."

"William is scared of what he is and of what he is capable of doing. Of whatever entity shows him what he sees. And he is scared by his visions, of course. They puzzle him and confuse him. He feels lost, faced with the horrors of Elise Von Nichols' death."

He leans forward, palms brought together, elbows resting on his legs.

"But I believe I can help dear Will shed some light in the darkness."

* * *

It is one of those rare cool days before the true winter cold hits, a pale sun creeping through merciless clouds. The field is messy, grass golden and brown and autumn burnt.

A child impaled on a stag's head, a crow feasting on her eyes.

She is nightmare bleeding into reality bleeding into the cold air bleeding from Hell into Heaven and vice versa, and William stands before it pale and empty and terrified.

She is beautiful, dark hair curling along twisted shoulders neck exposed lips slightly pursed, a sin in itself apart from the killing. Behind him, Lord Crawford talks with his trusty knights.

"Her lungs have been removed," Will says, terrified and matter-of-factly.

* * *

Father Lecter cooks all his own meals. He does not trust others with his food (the same way he does not trust anyone else with any part of his life) and must control it down to each and every exquisite detail.

Chronos, Time, ate his own children in fear of one overthrowing him from the throne, the taste of others' flesh a sweet worthless promise of immortality.

Father Lecter slices lungs and salts them, finds a pan to cook them in.

* * *

"This is the second girl he kills and leaves us to find."

"This isn't the same person."

"How can this not be-"

"This is someone else."

Lord Crawford glares at William, who looks terrified at the prospect of there being two killers. 

"This. This person right here considered this maiden a _pig_  ready for slaughter. Elise was killed by someone who  _worshipped her_. By someone who wanted to keep her beautiful forever. Who wanted to keep her with them forever."

And then his mind snaps in the middle and reassembles and Will realizes.

"He has a daughter the same age as the other girls and she's about to leave to be married to someone, or something of the sort. He wants to keep her with him forever. Be her father forever."

"How are you so certain?"

"I don't  _know_. I just _am_."

* * *

That night William dreams of a stag standing behind him, breath hot, eyes blazing. 

It is waiting. He is waiting.

* * *

He is awaken by a pounding beneath his tongue and by the sound of someone knocking on his door, his tiny claustrophobic room suddenly even tighter than usual.

William opens the door to find Father Lecter holding a sack in one hand, a cordial smile sitting smugly on his face.

"Good day, William."

"Why are you here?"

"I thought I would offer you breakfast."

Graham furrows his brow at the priest and hesitates, for a moment, before letting him in (although the other man is, at this point, nearly pushing himself through the door) and Lecter sits himself at the Will's small writing desk, pulling out bread and what looks like salted ham.

He cuts a slice of each for William and hands them to him, who gingerly accepts.

"I would consider apologizing for what I said when we were speaking with Lord Crawford, but I am a man of faith and questioning the faith of others is something that comes natural to me. My questioning your faith in particular will happen again and often, so I have decided to use my apologies sparingly."

"Just as long as you do not prod."

"Or you could let me help you, William."

"I do not find you trustworthy enough."

Lecter takes a bite of bread. "You will." he says calmly.

Graham arches his brow, a clear sign of utter doubt, and before he can say anything, Lecter adds: "Villagers tell me they found another girl."

"She wasn't killed by the same person."

"How are you so certain of that?"

"Because Elise von Nichols was killed with... _mercy and with love_.

( _oh Lord please forgive me_ )

This girl was  _butchered_. The demon who killed this girl wanted to prove that it is everything the person who killed von Nichols is not."

"Meaning?"

"Calm. Collected. Elegant. I doubt he will ever do something like that again, display his... his  _prowess_ in such way again. This was a once in a lifetime work of art."

"You call murder art?"

William stops in his tracks and scoffs, a bitter mean laugh, and thinks he can tell the priest's game, "If you are insinuating-"

"I am not insinuating anything. Lord Crawford sees you as a precious little miracle to hord, locked away in some forsaken abbey. I am merely trying to understand."

Graham's laugh becomes louder, nearly exasperated, almost a copy of a laugh. It clinks against the walls and sounds as if he is reminding himself what laughter sounds like.  _This is what sane people do_.

"And what do you _understand_ , Father Lecter?"

Will's voice is dripping with skepticism and sarcasm.

"That you are mongoose I want under the house when the snakes slither by. Finish your breakfast."

(And let the game begin).

* * *

William stands next to the priest outside a small shack next to a half-finished church, "Zeller and Price narrowed down the brick dust to this particular place."

"Shouldn't knights be preoccupied in things other than the murder of innocent girls?" Lecter asks, not without malice.

"Shouldn't priests?"

"Shouldn't scholars?"

"It's the one thing I wonder _every_ day."

Graham, cold, then rubs his hands together and knocks on the door. A small plump man opens it and eyes them suspiciously, before recognizing Hannibal: " _Father_ , what brings you here today?"

"We're looking for a man," William answers instead, "someone who works here."

The other glares at him and at the sword (a courtesy of Lord Crawford) hanging from his waist, "Many men work here."

"A man who often doesn't show. Who often disappears for long periods of time. Erratic."

"We have many men of that sort."

William has to desperately keep himself from rolling his eyes.

"But there's one of them who hardly ever shows. His name is Hobbes, I think. Garret Jacob Hobbes, something of the sort. Didn't even leave me a proper address to find him at."

William's eyes burn, suddenly, the Demon laughs, "Does this man have a daughter?"

The other shrugs, "It's none of my business." and William knows there is no way this can be true and yet, something tells him (not  _something_ a _Demon_ ) that this is the man they are looking for. Erratic and secretive and chaos, chaos, chaos, darkness dripping into real life.

_But William darling, you have yet to know what darkness truly is._

He nods at Father Lecter, who's in the meantime said little and done nothing, just observed, mutters "It's him," and thanks the other man as the two storm out. He glares up at the sky: both grey and blue, autumn's last breath already falling into winter's pursed lips, hungry for flesh and for life to be extinguished. William glances over at the priest, who's staring at him with eyes that betray only one emotion: curiosity.

"There's a cabin on the outskirts of the woods not far from here. A hunter and his family live there. It might be them," the clergyman suggests whilst William's clambering onto his horse. Graham nods at him.

"I'll go and warn Lord Crawford, and then I'll go and check on him."

"And I'll follow close behind," is Lecter's reply as he straddles his horse, too, the beast whinning nervously. He waits for Will to have disappeared around a corner before calling a town girl who's sitting nearby. 

"Would you be willing to deliver a message?"

"What's in it for me, Father?" the kid cleverly snaps.

Lecter frowns, finishes writing on a slip of parchment two quick, sharp words and places it in the girl's grimy hand along with two coins. "Do you know where the hunter lives?"

"The one near the forest? Hobbes? He's my father, sir."

Hannibal smirks and nods, "Bring this to him, and there'll be two other coins for you. And God bless you, child."

* * *

Garrett Jacob Hobbes is a man with a face like a rat's and eyes deep and burning, hands quick and precise when it comes to certain things, blood never truly washed away from them.

And yet when he sees his daughter run up to their shack his face nearly melts into a smile, her pale eyes framed by dark hair, she is beautiful and she is his and she is wonderful, so fragile, the touch incomplete, virginity still whole and so pure and so _magnificent_.

"Father?" she says, a chime and ring against his exhausted ears. "Father, the priest gave me this for you."

She hands him the small slip of parchment as she steps inside. He opens it and reads it.

_They know_.

And he looks up at his daughter and at his wife cleaning the cabin floor, and his look is that of absolute horror. Of absolute  _pity_.

* * *

Graham finds Lecter at the path leading up to the Hobbes' cabin, slows his horse to match William's trot. 

"Jack said he'll be here soon."

"Very well. Are you entirely sure that it is Hobbes?"

"The Demo- _It_. It's sure."

"And you trust it?"

" _I have nothing else to trust_."

The cabin's in sight when, all of a sudden, the door bursts open. A woman stumbles out, eyes wide, hands outstretched as blood pours from her throat and coats the wood in red, red are her fingers, red is her dress red is her soundless scream as she crawls on all fours away from the madman that's hunting her.

Will's the first to stop his hors and literally throw himself off of it, rush forwards as Hobbes' wife bleeds out on the ground. William feels his hands wrap around the woman's throat, trying to stop the blood from flowing, but red seeps through his fingers, almost black, and she's sobbing and begging and clutching his wrist until her eyes go glassy and William understands she's gone, and he's never been more sure in his life and what if this is the Demon's doing? What if it knew he thought Hobbes was the murderer and planted the seed of madness in Garrett's brain? But it's too late to think, and William's mind is much too empty and scared to think, and as he stands up he is only marginally aware of the priest calmly walking behind him, and he is sweating and he is scared, and he steps into the cabin, trousers dirty with blood he sees Hobbes hold a knife to his daughter's throat as he whispers into his ear and in that split second that he realizes what's about to happen, before he can even  _properly understand oh Lord please forgive me_ he's grabbed his sword and run Hobbes through it and he doesn't know  _how_ , all he knows is that as he does so the man manages to slit the girl's throat (not all the way Oh Praise The Lord) but she falls to the floor nonetheless, and the desperate rasping sound that escapes her throat cannot possibly be considered  _human_.

Garrett Jacob Hobbes stumbles back as William Graham stabs him once and then twice and then a third time, leaving the sword lodged in his chest with desperate fury as he slumps back against the wall behind them, head rolling to the side. Will then stumbles backwards, too, for a moment, and surveys the scene: a bleeding girl and a dying father. He throws himself forward, fingers wrapping around the girl's neck the same way they did with her mother's.

Garrett Jacob Hobbes smiles as he dies, smiles at William with a grin fit for Satan himself. "See?" he hisses, " _See_?"

And then there's footsteps behind William, as Lecter stands above the unlikely trinity (Dead Father, Shattered Daughter and Unholy Ghost). He then gingerly crouches down beside William and moves his trembling useless hands to substitute them with his own. Will sits back, bewildered, as Crawford's men suddenly storm in, too, and then Zeller is helping the priest carry the girl outside. But William's mind is blank, blood soaking his sleeves, blood seeped under his fingernails.

His mind is blank. Nothing whispers back at him except for Hobbes' smirk.

_Thus be my will_. _Thus be my will_. _Thus be His will_.

* * *

Mother Alana shuts the door behind her. Inside, a girl tames frightful nightmares with her throat bandaged tight, her hand clutching onto a priest's.

Lord Crawford is standing in front of the prioress, arms crossed.

"Where's William?" the baron asks.

" _You said his mind would be safe_." she hisses back, and doesn't answer.

* * *

William steps into the room, and it's less cold than he thought, light creeping in from a small slit up high in the stone walls, a fire place alit with embers. 

Abigail, (this is the girl's name), sleeps, her brow furrowed, sweat dripping and matting already dirty hair. Graham lets his eyes trail along her thin body, her rattling breaths.

She is fighting. They both are. 

Beside her, Father Lecter sits in a chair, head drooping slightly as he too, sleeps. One hand clutches the Bible, the other looks unnaturally large as it delicately holds Abigail's. William swallows and grabs a stool, quietly sitting on the other side of the bed.

And he waits.

He doesn't know what for.


End file.
